


Life and Death

by Monty Python Fan (orphan_account)



Series: The More Things Change [7]
Category: British Comedy RPF, Monty Python RPF, The Goodies RPF
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Cutting, Dark, Depression, Explicit Language, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Crying, Mental Health Issues, Overdosing, Rated for Gore, Razors, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-10 12:59:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6986110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Monty%20Python%20Fan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study in suicide.</p><p>Timeline: March - April 1971</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Time

Tears were dribbling down his cheeks, and his chest was tight, but Tim felt more calm and collected than he had been in years. His fingers trembled as he undid the clasp on the bottle of painkillers, almost dropping the bottle but managing to keep his grip. He slowly tipped them into the sweaty palm of his left hand, watching the two he dropped bounce off of his legs and hit the floor. More tears ran down his cheeks, and he swallowed hard, putting the now empty bottle down and picking up the glass of water he had placed beside it.

Feeling sick, he thought of John and how his stupid actions ruined their friendship forever, and how everyone else he knew seemed so happy all of the time, and his wonderful Graeme, who was far too good for him, and how everything was just totally fucked. His sleeves had ridden up his arms, exposing the small scars decorating most of his forearms that he had inflicted on himself over the past few years.

Tim took a deep breath, still not totally sure if he really wanted to do this, and shoved as many of the tablets into his mouth as he could. The taste made him gag, and he brought the glass to his lips, and, screwing his eyes up, swallowed as hard as he could. The tablets scratched his throat and he gagged again, more tears spilling down his cheeks, but he managed to swallow them all.

He flopped back against the bathtub and wrapped his arms around his abdomen, which was already beginning to churn, wondering how long it would take. But then it began to churn a bit too violently, and he realised, with a sense of dread, what was going to happen. Tim got his head over the toilet just in time, as, only seconds later, he threw up everything he had in his stomach. His throat burned and sweat ran down his back, and everything hurt so fucking badly and it made him want to scream.

When it was finally over, he toppled over and ended up curled up on the lino, holding his burning stomach. The sobs got louder until he was howling, even though he knew that someone might hear. This was exactly why he hated himself so much, because he couldn’t do anything right. He was so fucking useless that he couldn’t even kill himself properly.

“Tim, are you all right in there?”

He tensed up and held his breath when he heard Graeme’s voice, clamping his hand over his mouth to muffle the sobs. Graeme couldn’t know.

“Tim?” He rattled the doorknob, and Tim was glad he had remembered to lock it. He didn’t want Gray to see him like this.

Keeping a hand over his mouth, Tim grabbed the bottle and stuffed it back into the cupboard under the sink, and tried to sit up straight, finding himself strangely dizzy.

“Tim?” Now Graeme sounded panicky, and Tim hated himself for stressing him out.

Sighing, he flushed the toilet, and, hauling himself to his feet, scrubbed his hands and face in the sink, trying to stop crying. He rinsed his mouth out with water, hoping that would get the foul taste out of his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and his jaw looked oddly swollen, making him look slightly like he had mumps or something, but he hoped Graeme wouldn’t notice it. But, then again, Graeme was a doctor, so . . . he was probably totally fucked.

“Tim?”

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Tim unlocked the door, and saw Gray stood in the doorway, looking so concerned that, if possible, it made Tim feel even worse.

“Hello, Gray.”

“Tim, you look awful. Are you all right?”

Tim nodded, not able to look at Graeme’s eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure . . . I thought I heard you crying.”

He forced himself to smile, even though he wanted to bury his head into Gray’s chest and cry, or, more likely, find a more effective method of committing suicide. He thought of his cutthroat razor, and wondered why he just hadn’t tried doing that. Probably because he was a fucking idiot.

He sighed slightly, knowing that lying wasn’t going to work.

“Yeah, I was a bit,” Tim admitted, trying to walk past Graeme, but his partner put a hand on his chest, stopping him.

“Why? What’s upset you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugged his shoulders. “Was just feeling sad for no real reason, you know?”

Graeme frowned. “Not really. Are you sure you’re fine?”

“I am now, Gray,” he said, forcing himself to smile. “Really.”

\---------

For a couple of hours, Tim genuinely thought he had gotten away with it, and Graeme was never going to find out. But then . . .

“Tim, have you any idea where all of the aspirin’s gone?” Graeme said, walking into the living room with the empty bottle in his hand.

“No,” he said a bit too quickly, watching Graeme tip the bottle upside down. He saw the look on Gray’s face, and knew he wasn’t convincing him.

“Are you sure?” Gray asked, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Because I only got that bottle last week. It was practically full last time I saw it.”

“Ah, no, I remember now!” Tim cried, trying to act like he was both surprised and annoyed with himself at the same time, and not exactly succeeding. Instead, he sounded manic and panicky, the latter of which he most certainly was. “I am a dozy sod, aren’t I? No, I had the bottle out to take one when I was in the lav earlier, and I, uh, sort of tripped over my own feet, and, and, the bottle, um, the bottle spilled and they all went down the sink. Sorry about that.” Tim realised only when he had finished rambling that he had been practically shouting, and ducked his head so he couldn’t see the way Gray was staring at him.

“I see,” Gray said, sitting down beside him. He shuffled around so he was almost facing him, and Tim saw a look on his face that he couldn’t read. “Tim, are you sure that’s what happened?”

“Yes!” His voice cracked, and he saw Graeme flinch slightly. “Maybe.”

He felt the sofa jerk as Graeme tensed up, and quickly glanced at his partner out of the corner of his eye. Gray was staring at him, his eyes wide with horror, and Tim, with a sense of dread, realised that he must have worked out the truth. He wanted to run away, but he didn’t seem to be able to move.

“Please, Tim, tell me you didn’t do anything silly,” Gray said, and his voice wobbled like he was fighting back tears.

Tim forced himself to smile. “Of course I didn’t. Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

“I’m sorry,” Graeme said. “I was just worried about you.”

“You don’t need to worry, Gray,” he said, trying to smile through his blatant lie. “I’m fine, really.”

Tim pulled him into a hug, wishing he could stop feeling so dreadful. But he couldn’t.

He knew the only way to stop the pain would be to die. And he hoped that his next try would be much more successful, because he really didn’t have the strength to live anymore.


	2. Second Time

It took him three days before he tried again. Graeme still didn’t know what had happened, but he seemed to have his suspicions, and that was probably why he didn’t seem to be leaving him alone, constantly tagging along behind him and talking to him and never leaving his side. But, when they went to Michael and Eric’s house for some party, he got his chance.

Graeme quickly got drunk, and Tim did too, and that only seemed to help him make up his mind. Alcohol made him depressed even when he wasn’t mentally ill, so now he was majorly unwell, he knew what he needed to do.

Now he was pissed, Graeme had stopped stalking him, and Tim found him sat slumped in an armchair. Graeme was resting a bottle of beer on his thigh and having a very one sided and rambling conversation with Terry Gilliam, who still couldn’t talk properly after his accident. But they seemed satisfied with Gray doing all the talking and Terry doing all the listening, and part of him didn’t want to disturb them.

Sighing, Tim went up to Graeme and, before he could say anything, gave him a big kiss and hugged him tightly, part of him never wanting to let go. When he did pull away, Graeme looked totally bemused.

“What’s th-that for?”

“Just w-wanted y’to know I l-love you.” He said, smiling sadly.

“Isn’t that sweet, Eric?” Michael said from the other side of the room, putting his arm around his partner’s shoulders. Tim didn’t listen to what Eric said in reply.

Then he trailed off upstairs, his feet bumping into the steps, and eventually found the bathroom. It didn’t have a lock on the door, so he sat with his back against it, hoping his weight would keep people out. Tears were beginning to run down his cheeks, but, again, he felt that rare sense of control, and that helped him stay calm.

He rummaged through the cupboard under the sink until he found a cutthroat razor. It didn’t occur to him that it belonged to someone else and probably wasn’t sterile; at that moment, nothing mattered to him. He wasn’t thinking straight. He wasn’t thinking of anything at all.

Holding his breath, Tim pressed the blade to the inside of his wrist, and pushed down so hard it broke the skin. He bit back a cry of pain, gritting his jaw, tears spilling down his cheeks. Blood was already oozing out of the cut, seeping across his skin and running onto his hand. His hand was sweating, and he tightened his slippery grip on the handle, before digging the blade in further and dragging it up his arm to the inside of his elbow. Tim couldn’t help but whimper at the fucking agony of his flesh tearing open, feeling sick when he saw different layers of skin and muscle, and the way huge amounts of blood were now oozing and even spurting out of the huge, jagged gash in his left arm.

His trousers were already soaked, and he felt horribly lightheaded, watching with morbid fascination as his blood poured all over him and the floor. He knew this would work. It had to.

It was then he heard someone knocking on the door.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice slightly slurred. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Is someone in there?” He recognised Eric’s slurred voice, and began to panic. “Hello? Can you h-hurry up, ‘cause I really n-need to piss?”

Suddenly, the realisation of what he had done seemed to hit Tim full in the chest. He felt sick, but he couldn’t move. His limbs felt numb and his head was spinning, and he knew he was really close to passing out and dying. But now he’d done it, he didn’t actually know if he really wanted to die.

“Hello?” Eric rattled the doorknob, and tried to push the door open, and Tim wondered why the fuck they didn’t have a lock.

Tim didn’t want him to come in, but he didn’t seem to be able to move, and Eric easily pushed the door until he toppled over and managed to open the door wide. Tim slumped onto his side, pain shooting up his arm, his vision starting to go funny. Tears were pouring down his face, and he could feel blood soaking though the back of his shirt.

For a few seconds, Eric just stood there, staring at him, and, for another few seconds, Tim hoped he would run away. But then, all of a sudden, Eric started to panic.

“Fucking hell!” Eric screamed, and Tim heard what sounded like him throwing his guts up.

He wanted him to go away, but he couldn’t quite manage to voice his thoughts. If he could, though, he would have screamed at him to fuck off and kicked the door shut. But he didn’t; he just laid there and watched Eric freak out.

“Tim, what’s happened? What’s going on? Jesus fucking Christ! GRAHAM!”

He crouched down beside him, and Tim saw stomach acid running down his chin. Eric looked down at the floor, and picked up the very bloody razor with trembling hands. Tim watched his eyes widen in realisation and he stuck his head over the toilet and was sick again.

“What the fuck have you done, Tim?”

“Which one?” Graham called from the bottom of the stairs.

“It doesn’t matter. Call nine nine nine!” Eric shrieked, stumbling to his feet and going out onto the landing, still holding the razor.

“What? Why?” Graeme slurred, and Tim cried harder when he heard his partner’s voice.

“Why’ve you got a razor?”

“Whose blood’s that?”

“Eric?”

“What’s going on?” John said, obviously joining their little huddle at the bottom of the stairs.

Tim heard Eric stumbling, sounding like he was nearing collapse. “Tim’s, he’s, uh, he’s . . .”

“He’s what?” That was Bill, sounding panicked, and Tim remembered just how many people were here.

“He’s, he’s,” He heard a thud as Eric stumbled into the doorframe.”He’s slit his wrist.”

“What?!” Graeme screamed, and he came thumping up the stairs, the others all reacting in a similar manner, all of them screaming and one of them sounding like they were throwing up.

“Bloody hell!”

“What the fuck?”

“Jesus Christ!”

“How?”

Tim wished he could close the door, but he didn’t have the strength to move. Gray burst into the room and dropped to his knees beside him, his hands smoothly grabbing his left arm at the hand and the elbow, and raising it above his head, like he knew exactly what to do. Which, obviously, he did, because he was a fucking doctor.

“What the fuck have you done, Tim?” He said, and Tim saw tears in his eyes.

“I, u-uh, I,” He tried to speak, but he was crying so hard he couldn’t get the words out.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” Gray asked Eric, who was hovering in the doorway.

“Y-yes,” Eric stuttered, rushing off, presumably to get it.

“And call nine nine nine and tell th-the others to stay out.” Gray called, before turning back to him.

Blood was running down the inside of his arm, up his sleeve and into his armpit, and Gray’s hand was soaked in blood. He didn’t know he had so much blood in him. Or how much more he had left.

Gray shuffled around so Tim’s shoulders were resting against his legs, the back of his head touching his stomach. The movement made the pain a lot worse, and he threw up down his shirt. The smell of stomach acid almost made him sick again. He was crying so hard he could barely breathe.

“Why did you do it, Tim?” Graeme said, and the tone of his voice made Tim want to cut his other arm. But he didn’t have the strength to move. And he certainly didn’t know how to respond.

“What’s going on up there?” He heard Terry Jones say from somewhere downstairs, and wished he wouldn’t come upstairs to investigate. He didn’t want anyone else to see him like this.

Eric came back a few seconds later, carrying a green plastic box, which he undid and held out to Graeme. Tim saw his hands shaking, and he seemed to be crying, although he couldn’t be sure. He winced again, longing for the pain to stop.

“Pass me a dressing,” Graeme said, suddenly in doctor mode, and that helped to reassure Tim a little bit.

Eric nodded and unwrapped one of the dressings, which Gray took and pressed against his arm, squeezing so hard he winced and felt like he was going to be sick again.

“Do you need another?”

“Please.” Graeme said without looking up, and Eric passed him another one. “Thanks.”

“Michael’s calling the emergency services.”

“That’s good. Is he telling them exactly what happened?”

Eric nodded, and Tim tried not to groan. “Yeah, I told him.”

Gray pressed the second dressing over the bottom half of the gash, somehow keeping both in place at one. Tim could feel his hands shaking too.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Leave,” Graeme said, but it didn’t found nearly as blunt as Tim thought it might.

“Sure thing,” Eric said. He didn’t look like he wanted to leave, but Eric still smiled weakly, got to his feet and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Tim leaned his head back so he could see Graeme’s face, and sighed when he saw how stressed and outright scared he looked.

“I’m s-sorry,” he spluttered, bursting into tears all over again.

Graeme leaned down and kissed his sweaty forehead. He didn’t say anything. He probably didn’t know what to say.

“I’m really sorry. I was tr-trying to kill myself the other day . . . shouldn’t’ve l-lied to you. ‘M so s-sorry.”

“You tried to overdose?” Gray said, sounding so horrified that Tim somehow cried harder.

He nodded his head, and it made the room spin. His vision was going black around the edges.

“Swallowed all th-the pills in th-the bottle,” he said, screwing his burning eyes up. He felt so sick, even though there was nothing left in his stomach. “Threw them u-up about th-thirty seconds later.” He slammed his fist against his forehead, but it didn’t hurt. “I c-can’t even kill my-myself properly. ‘M fucking use-useless!”

Tim felt something drip onto his forehead, and he realised that Graeme was crying. Not sobbing hysterically like him, but crying silently, with tears dribbling down his cheeks. Gray never cried.

“You’re not useless, Tim,” Gray said, and his voice was wobbling.

Blood was soaking through the dressings at an alarming rate, and Graeme slapped another one on top of the two bloody ones. Tim gritted his teeth at the sudden jolt of pain, and tears dribbled into his ears.

“I am!” He hit his forehead again, so hard it made his knuckles hurt.

“Stop it,” Gray said softly. “You are not useless, Tim.”

“I am,” he sobbed, barely able to form words he was crying so hard.

“No, you’re not. You’re a kind, intelligent, witty, lovely man, Tim. You’re friends care about you – couldn’t you hear how worried they all are? And you’re the best bloody partner ever. I love you and you love me and I’m not going to let you leave m-e.”

Graeme’s voice broke on the last word, and his face crumpled. He sobbed for about ten seconds before getting control back. Tim screwed his eyes up, unable to watch his partner break down like that. It was horrible to see.

“’M sorry,” he said again. He reached out with his free hand and managed to grasp Graeme’s wrist, smearing it with blood.

His grip must have gone because the next thing he knew, his hand had smacked against his forehead and pain shot through his head.

“Careful,” Graeme said, and his voice echoed strangely.

Everything was so hazy . . .

\--------

Once he had finished his call to the emergency services, Michael put the phone down and stumbled into the living room. He had to go past the stairs, and considered asking Graeme if he needed help, but knew that the doctor was adamant that he wanted them to stay out of the way. Plus, he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to see what was going on in there.

Sighing, he sat down beside Eric, watching his friends, not knowing what to do. This was meant to be a birthday party for Eric, and so Mike had invited the other Pythons and Eric’s friends from Cambridge – well, only the ones who still talked to him since Eric had come out – for a nice, relaxed evening. But now . . .

Eric looked awful, all pale and sweaty and incredibly freaked out. He stank of vomit, and Mike released that he must have been sick the moment he saw Tim, presumably all over his feet, as he was no longer wearing his socks. He felt sick himself when he wondered what the poor sod must look like, and wished he could do something to help. But he couldn’t. Mike sighed heavily.

He looked over at Gilliam, who was shifting uncomfortably in his wheelchair, and John, who was slumped beside him, resting his head on his partner’s shoulder. On the other side of the room were Graham and Bill, who both looked like they were itching to go upstairs and see poor Tim, and Jonesy, who was fiddling with his paralysed fingers as he often did when he was stressed. Bill appeared to be on the verge of tears, which was something Mike had never seen before.

“Why did he do it?” Mike said, seeming to make the others jump.

“Because he’s an idiot,” John snapped.

“John!” Bill snapped back, sounding outraged. “Don’t be so fucking horrible. Suicide isn’t stupid.”

“No, it’s not,” Graham said, nodding his head and taking hold of Terry’s hand. “It’s a desperate measure, a cry for help. Nobody wants to die, John. Trying to kill yourself is just trying to end the horrible life that you’re currently living.”

“But he hasn’t got a horrible life, that’s just the point.”

Bill sighed heavily and folded his arms across his chest. “Well, I think we now know who has no clue about mental illnesses at all.”

“Well you know what I mean. He should try being someone like Terry, then he’d have a real reason to be miserable.”

Gilliam swatted feebly at John with his working hand, scowling as well as he could with the side of his face that worked properly. It made his face look lopsided. “Don’t d-d-drag me ‘nto th-th-this.” He slurred, sounding genuinely pissed off, but John didn’t appear to notice, as he was too busy glaring at Bill.

“That’s not how mental illness works.” Bill hissed, gritting his teeth.

“And how exactly are you the fucking expert on this, Bill?”

“Because my mum was in hospital for most of my childhood with fucking schizophrenia and I’m actually clinically depressed and I used to get suicidal thoughts and actually wanted to die, John!” Bill snapped.

John just sat there, stunned. Mike was stunned too. He was pretty sure that they were all stunned.

“I had no idea.” John eventually said.

“Yes, well maybe you should think before you open your fucking mouth.” Bill said, scowling at John.

Then the room dissolved into an awkward silence. Mike listened out for sirens, wondering how long it would take for the ambulance to arrive.

“Graham!” Graeme called, taking everyone by surprise. Gray stumbled to his feet.

“Yes?” He called back, rushing to the bottom of the stairs.

“I need some help.”

Mike heard Gray’s feet on the stairs, and leaned against Eric, sighing. He listened as the bathroom door opened, grimacing as he heard Graham swear, and then slammed shut. Then they all just sat in silence, staring at each other and the floor like they didn’t know what to do.

“I should have known something was wrong when he went up to Graeme and hugged him,” he said, remembering the last thing he had seen Tim do before he went upstairs.

“Why?” Terry asked, looking confused.

But Bill was nodding, smiling weakly in understanding. “People who are about to kill themselves tend to say goodbye to the people they’re closest to before they do it.” His voice was beginning to shake, and he swallowed hard.

Mike sighed, trying to listen to what was going on upstairs. He could faintly hear Tim crying, and the two doctors swearing, and just hoped that they could save him. Tim couldn’t die – he was only thirty one. And he knew it sounded selfish, but he really didn’t want someone to die in his house.

As the minutes slid by, Mike got to the point where he couldn’t take it anymore, and slipped out of the room without saying a word, desperate to see Tim. Even though part of him knew it was a really bad idea, he tiptoed up the stairs and onto the landing, and poked his head into the bathroom.

What he saw made his stomach churn; no wonder Eric was sick. Tim was lying on his back on the floor, his feet propped up on Graham’s shoulders, and Graeme was holding his arm up in the air. And there was blood everywhere, literally everywhere. Tim’s light green shirt was soaked in it, Graeme’s hands were slicked with it, and it was practically pooling all over the linoleum floor. Tim was crying, even though he looked close to passing out, and Graeme, whilst looking reasonably controlled and professional, also had tears dribbling down his cheeks. Mike wondered what it was like to see your partner bleeding out right in front of you. He wanted to cry.

Graeme was pressing dressings against the whole length of Tim’s forearm, but blood was soaking through them, and Mike wondered just how large the cut was. Graham was rummaging through the first aid kit (Mike was glad that he had remembered to get one all those years ago), constantly passing things to the other man. And they were both mumbling things under their breath about staying calm and how he was going to be all right and that an ambulance was on its way, but none of that seemed to console Tim.

Mike felt like he was going to vomit when his eyes focused on something else: Eric’s cutthroat razor. He knew it was Eric’s because of the blue handle, which was now covered in bloody finger prints, looking like something out of a crime scene. The blade was coated in congealing blood, and Mike knew it was Tim’s blood.

He had totally forgotten what he was going to say, and, to be truthful, Mike didn’t think he could open his mouth without vomiting. So he hurried off back downstairs, and threw up in the downstairs toilet.

“Was it bad?” He jumped and turned his head. Bill was stood in the doorway.

Mike straightened up, flushing the toilet with one hand, nodding his head. Bill looked like he was about to burst into tears.

“Yes, it was,” he said, not wanting to lie. Bill was blinking rapidly, and his eyes were suspiciously shiny.

“I should’ve noticed something was wrong,” Bill said, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m his best friend. I should’ve been there for him.”

“We all should’ve,” he said as he washed his hands. “Don’t blame yourself, Bill.”

Bill smiled weakly at him, and Mike hoped he had managed to reassure him. But then Bill suddenly broke down, pulling Mike into a hug and sobbing into his chest. Mike stood stiffly for a few seconds, but then began to rub Bill’s back.

“It’s all right, mate. Come on.” He said, but his words sounded hollow and fake.

“I need to see him,” Bill said into his chest. Mike started to feel sick again as he remembered what Tim had looked like.

“I don’t think you do,” he said weakly.

But Bill ignored him and, pulling away from him, left the room and hurried up the stairs. Mike went to the bottom of the stairs and watched Bill creep across the landing and open the bathroom door. Bill’s legs started shaking, and Mike wondered if he was going to fall over. He said something that Michael couldn’t hear, stepping further into the bathroom.

“Fuck of, Bill!” Graeme snapped, so loud that Mike could clearly hear him from the bottom of the stairs. He’d never heard Graeme sound so angry before.

Bill came stumbling back down the stairs a few seconds later. He dashed into the toilet and threw up violently, and Mike wondered if déjà vu was real.

Once he had finished, Bill turned around and looked at him. He looked so sad. “I think you were right.”

Jonesy came out of the living room and stared at them both. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? I keep hearing vomiting.”

Mike looked at Bill, who was wiping his runny nose, and sighed. “That’s what happens if you go up there and look at him.”

Terry frowned. “What?”

“We both went and had a look, and it made us both throw up, didn’t it, Bill?”

Bill nodded his head, not doing a very good job of hiding his tears. Mike didn’t even realise that he himself was crying until he felt his cheeks getting wet.

“Fucking hell,” Terry said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Is it that bad?”

Mike nodded, and so did Bill. “Yeah, it was fucking awful.”

“Completely fucking awful,” Bill added, his voice wobbling.

“Do you think he’ll make it?” Terry asked, wiping at his own, dampening eyes.

Mike locked eyes with Bill, and knew he was just as confused as him. “I don’t know, mate,” he mumbled, thinking of how much blood there had been. “I just don’t know.”

\-----

Graeme insisted on coming in the ambulance with Tim, so that left the rest of them at the house, not having a clue what to do. As they were all drunk, they decided on a taxi. In the end, it was Michael, Graham, John, Eric and Bill who took the taxi up to the hospital, Mike because he was the least pissed, and the others because they went to Cambridge with Tim and were, as such, his closest friends.

Their journey was an awkward one; nobody spoke, presumably because they had nothing to say. Mike, on entering the cab, had noticed that the driver had given Graham’s bloody clothes a strange look, as though he thought Gray might have been a murderer, or something. Had he been in any other situation, Michael might have laughed. But, instead, he just stared out of the window and hoped beyond hope that Tim would pull through.

\-----

After several hours of waiting, a nurse led Graeme to Tim’s room, and he almost broke down when he saw him. Tim, his Tim, was unconscious, lying flat on his back with an oxygen mask strapped over his face. Electrodes were stuck to his chest, and he had an IV going into either arm: one pumping intravenous fluids into his body, and the other hooked up to a bag of blood. He had needed a blood transfusion. That was really fucking bad.

His left forearm was wrapped in dressings, and Graeme felt sick when he thought about how deep the wound had been. With his arms exposed like they were, Graeme could clearly the self harm scars littering his forearms, some of them white and almost faded, others deep red and obviously very recent. Graeme felt like an idiot for not having noticed the signs that Tim was cutting himself, but, until he saw his arms in the bathroom earlier, he had never seen Tim’s arms exposed before.

The nurse who was leaning over Tim looked up at him, and smiled. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Graeme said weakly, sinking into one of the plastic chairs beside Tim’s bed. “What’s the damage?”

The nurse passed him Tim’s chart. “See for yourself.”

Graeme flicked through the chart. It wasn’t as bad as he had thought, but it still made him feel sick. Thirty stitches, and two pints of transfused blood. There was a note at the bottom of the chart that read: **Possible suicide attempt. Consider patient high risk for suicidal behaviour.**

Graeme’s eyes were starting to sting, and he had to rush out of the room so the nurse couldn’t see him crying.

It made him feel pathetic to break down, but he couldn’t help it. It was just so hard to know he hadn’t noticed any of the build up to this. And, even though he knew Tim was safe, and that he was going to recover physically, he had no idea what the fuck they were going to do to help him get better mentally.


	3. Third Time

He often wondered what would’ve happened if he hadn’t just looked up, and the realisation of how close he came to not noticing another human’s plight made him feel awful, especially when he thought of what might have happened if he hadn’t got there in time. Still, for some reason, Graham tilted his head back as he walked though the car park, looking up at the cloudy sky, and that was when he saw it.

Someone was stood on the edge of the roof, looking dangerously like they were going to jump.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered.

Panic gripped at his chest, and Graham hurtled into the building and up to the top floor, where he quickly found the door to the roof. It was unlocked. He never leaned why someone hadn’t locked it.

He crept out onto the roof, not wanting to startle them in case he made them jump and fall, looking at the back of the person stood right on the edge of the roof, on the raised ledge. He could see them clearly now, and was certain, from the way their shoulders were shaking, that they were crying, and that they really were trying to commit suicide. They looked male, with collar length blond hair, and were wearing a blue suit, and . . . Gray suddenly realised who it was.

“Tim?”

He jumped violently, wobbling precariously, and Gray ran forwards. But, just in time, he steadied himself and turned around, showing Gray his tearstained face. Graham had never seen him cry before, apart from that awful night in the bathroom at Mike and Eric’s house a couple of weeks ago.

“What’re you doing?”

Tim spun back around, folding his arms across his chest and shivering in the strong breeze. He looked weak and weary, like he had no energy left.

“Isn’t that fucking obvious?” He spat, his voice wavering.

“But . . . why?” Gray asked, knowing it was a stupid question but not sure what else he should say.

Tim didn’t answer him. Instead, he bent his knees like he was getting ready to jump, and let his arms go limp at his sides, and Gray went into a total panic.

“Tim! Don’t!” He yelled, running forwards.

Gray wrapped his arms around Tim’s waist, clinging onto him as tightly as he could, willing himself to not let go. He couldn’t let him do this.

“Get off me!” Tim screamed, struggling against his grip with sudden, surprising strength.

“No!”

Gray threw his weight backwards, making them both overbalance and stumble backwards onto the roof. The force threw them to the floor, Gray wincing as he walloped his back and head against the concrete. It hurt even more when Tim’s weight hit him, but he didn’t care, not when he knew he had just saved Tim’s life. Tim was still struggling, so Gray rolled over and kneeled on Tim’s legs, pinning him to the floor.

“Please, Tim, don’t cry,” he tried, even though he knew his words were totally futile.

Tim was howling, tears pouring down his face, his sobs loud and jagged and sounding so agonised that Gray felt near tears. His sleeve had slipped up, exposing the self harm scars and the stitches and dark red scar running up the length of the inside of his forearm, and Gray remembered that it was only two weeks after his last attempt to kill himself. Tim was trying to pummel him with his fists, and Graham grabbed his hands to stop him hitting him, part of him wondering what someone would think if they saw them right now.

When Graham stared at his hands, he saw that blood was dribbling down his wrists. He looked at the back of Tim’s wrists, and saw blood leaking from small, thin cuts. He had been cutting himself again.

He wasn’t getting better.

Fuck.

“Tim, please don’t cry,” he said again. “Please, it’s all right.”

Tim opened his eyes for the first time, and glared at him. However, his bottom lip was wobbling so much that he didn’t look even slightly threatening.

“No it f-fucking isn’t,” he muttered, staring at him like he was an idiot. “There’s nothing all right about th-this, Graham. It’s fucking aw-awful.”

“But . . . you’re all right now.”

Tim didn’t say anything, screwing his eyes up again. He cried hysterically, kicking his feet out, but Gray didn’t get off of him.

“Why c-can you just let me d-die?” He sobbed.

Graham didn’t know how to answer that, so he didn’t say anything.

Tim continued to struggle against Graham, pulling one of his hands free and hitting him hard in the chest. Gray felt winded by the sudden blow, and gasped for breath, but tried to ignore the pain and the way Tim’s blood was smeared all over his hands and now the front of his shirt, even though he didn’t know why he was worried after having seen much more blood that night in Eric and Michael’s bathroom, all over Tim and Graeme’s hands and his shirt sleeves and the floor and the razor.

There had been so much blood . . .

He felt sick, and had to swallow hard to stop himself throwing up.

Once Tim had stopped struggling, Graham moved so he was no longer pinning him against the floor, and wrapped his arms around his friend as he helped him into an upright position. Tim pressed his face against his shoulder, sobbing loudly, and Gray patted his back, not knowing what to do. He leaned back against the low wall, and cradled Tim in his arms, wishing he was better at comforting people. He wished that Bill and Graeme were here, but, considering that Tim was wearing his costume for _The Goodies_ , they must have been right down in the building, on one of the many sets, nowhere near them. He sighed slightly, knowing he was all alone.

After what felt like years, Tim pulled away from his shoulder, leaving a damp patch, but still sat slumped against him, like he didn’t have the strength to keep himself upright. As he wiped his eyes on the cuffs of his blazer, Graham noticed that Tim was still clenching his hands into tight, shaking fists. Carefully, Gray reached out and tried to touch Tim’s hands, but he flinched away from him.

“Fuck off,” he snapped.

“Let me look at your hands,” Gray said, keeping his voice soft.

“No.”

But Gray wasn’t taking no for an answer. He gripped Tim’s wrist with one hand, and used the other to force his fist open. When he finally got to see Tim’s palm, he had to fight the urge to gasp. A small razor blade was sticking out of Tim’s palm, the cut oozing blood. It looked like he had clenched a fist whilst holding the blade, and it had ended up digging into his hand. He winced when he realised that the blade must have been what Tim was cutting himself with.

“Bloody hell, old chap,” he said softly, and, before Tim had the chance to stop him, he carefully gripped the blade between his fingers and pulled it out of Tim’s hand.

Tim cried out, more tears spilling down his face. “What the fuck, Graham?”

“Sorry, sorry.”

Gray dug a packet of tissues out of his pocket and pressed a tissue against the rapidly bleeding cut. Tim winced and gritted his teeth.

“Fucking hell, that hurt.”

It made Gray’s chest to look at him, but at least Tim wasn’t crying too much anymore. At least that was something.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, only moving when Tim indicated that he wanted to stand up. Graham helped Tim to his feet, tightly gripping his arm to stop him running away, and noticed for the first time that Tim’s trousers were wet around his groin, and realised that the poor git must have wet himself. He sighed, but didn’t mention it.

But then Tim did, taking him by surprise. “Costume are going to kill me.”

“What do you mean?” Graham asked, even though he knew exactly what Tim was talking about.

“’Ve ruined my costume,” he said, sighing heavily.

“It doesn’t matter, really. Come on,” Graham said softly. “Let’s go find Graeme.”

“No! I don’t want him to know what happened.” Tim said, suddenly looking terrified.

“Why not?”

“He’ll be so ashamed of me. I’m supposed to be getting better.”

Gray frowned, his hand hovering over the doorknob. “You mean you’re on antidepressants?”

Tim nodded, wiping his nose on his hand. “Yeah.”

“I’m guessing they’re not working?”

“Well, I don’t feel any less like I want to die.” Tim said, shrugging, but Gray knew he was close to breaking down again.

“That’ll be a no, then,” Gray muttered. “But that’s not your fault, Tim.”

Tim sniffed. “It’s not?”

“No, of course it’s not. It can take weeks, or even months, for antidepressants to get into your system and properly change your mood, and you’ve only been on them for, what, about two weeks?”

Tim nodded. He hesitated for a few seconds, as though he was thinking, before saying, “Fifteen days.”

“Yes, exactly,” He said. “So that’s why they’re not working; they just haven’t had a chance to do anything yet.”

Tim smiled weakly. “So I’m not a failure?”

“No, of course you’re not,” Graham gave him a quick hug, smiling. “You’re bloody brave, that’s what you are. Tell you what, Tim, if I was in your place right now, I wouldn’t even be trying to come to work.”

They went back into the building, Gray making sure to shut the door to the roof, and quickly bumped into Jonesy (AKA, his wonderful partner), who stared at them both like he didn’t know what to say. Tim, however, looked like he wanted to go back onto the roof, and Gray tightened his grip on the smaller man’s arm.

“What’s wrong with you two?” He asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

“Nothing.” Tim mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

Terry looked at Gray, and he could see that Terry didn’t believe Tim’s rather obvious lie. Luckily, though, Terry was bright enough to know it was a no-go area, and changed the subject.

“Hey, Tim, did you know Graeme’s been looking everywhere for you?”

Tim shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice quiet.

Terry looked down at Tim’s groin, and his eyes widened. “Have you . . .?”

Tim nodded his head, looking down at the floor. He frowned, gritting his teeth so hard that Gray could see his jaw twitching.

“Yes, I’ve pissed myself. Go on, laugh at me.”

Terry raised his eyebrows. “Why would I laugh at you?”

Tim shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know.”

Terry shared a concerned look with Gray. The three men dissolved into a very awkward silence.

“Well,” Terry said awkwardly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Graeme said he’s in his dressing room if you want to go and find him.”

“Thanks, old chap, we’ll do that,” Graham said, giving his partner a grateful smile. He gave Tim’s sleeve a tug. “Come on, Tim, let’s go find Graeme.”

Graham reached out to squeeze Terry’s hand as they walked away, but Terry did a double take when he saw the blood on his hand, keeping his own hand pinned to his side. Gray sighed.

As they walked through Television Centre, Graham put his arm around Tim’s shoulders, and was once again amazed at how much smaller Tim was than him. He could feel him shaking, and it made him want to cry. At one point, they passed John, still wearing a hideous wig and massive glasses, who was pushing Gilliam’s wheelchair, and he gave them a concerned smile when he saw that Tim was still crying. But he didn’t say anything, and Gray was grateful for that.

Once Gray found his way to Graeme’s dressing room, he knocked softly on the door, tightening his grip on Tim’s arm to stop his friend running away. Graeme opened the door, and his eyes widened when he saw him.

“What’s the matter with you?” He asked, frowning. “You look awful.”

Graham smiled weakly, and stepped to the side so Graeme could see his partner.

“Tim?” Graeme gasped. “Have you been crying?”

Tim nodded, but didn’t say anything, so Gray spoke for him. “Yes, he has.”

“What’s the matter?” He looked Tim up and down, and saw his damp trousers. “Have you pissed yourself?”

Tim nodded again, his cheeks going red.

“Shit, well, I’ll get you some of my trousers for now then, mate,” Graeme babbled, and Tim smiled weakly.

He rushed over to the cupboard and pulled out a pair of trousers, and pressed them into Tim’s hand, the hand that wasn’t wrapped in bloody tissue and tucked into his pocket. “Just go behind the screen, mate, and put these on. Afraid you’ll have to go commando, as it were, but it’s better than wet trousers.”

“Thanks, Gray,” Tim smiled pathetically and went behind the screen.

“What’s happened?” Graeme closed and locked the door, and sat down on the sofa. Gray sat beside him, listening to Tim unbuckle his belt and change into Graeme’s trousers.

“Maybe we should wait for Tim first,” Gray said.

Graeme nodded, and they waited for Tim to come back around the screen. Graeme’s trousers were a couple of inches too long for him, making him look smaller than ever. He had pulled his sleeves right down over his hands, and was hunched forwards as though anticipating a punch to the stomach. Tim smiled weakly and sat down between them on the sofa. Graeme took his partner’s hand and squeezed it hard, making Tim wince.

Graeme dropped Tim’s hand like it was burning hot. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Tim mumbled, trying to tuck his hand under his leg, but not before Graeme took hold of his wrist and looked at his palm and the cut.

“Bloody hell, what did you do?”

Tim pulled his arm free and folded his arms across his chest, tucking his hands into his armpits. He looked like he was about to start crying again. “Doesn’t matter.”

“He’s right, Gray,” Graham said, giving Tim’s shoulder a pat. “There’s something more important that we need to talk about right now.”

Graeme’s eyes widened. “There is?”

Gray smiled sadly, and Tim nodded his head whilst looking down at the floor.

“I’m not quite sure how to tell you,” Gray said, taking a deep breath.

Tim still wasn’t speaking, looking down at his slightly too long trousers and bouncing his legs up and down like he was itching to run away. It was horrible to see him like this, and Gray wished he could have his silly friend from Cambridge back. He was like a shell of his former self.

“I, uh, I found him up on the roof,” he said.

“What?” Graeme gasped, and Tim buried his head in his hands.

“On the ledge on the roof. He was on the ledge. He was going to jump. I stopped him just in time.”

“Fucking hell,” Graeme said, looking like he was about to throw up.

Gray half expected him to freak out, but, instead, he just pulled Tim into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around him and patting his back. He rested his chin on top of Tim’s head and looked at Gray, and he looked so sad that Graham wanted to cry.

“Sorry,” Tim murmured into his chest. His shoulders were shaking like he was crying. “’M so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault, mate,” Graeme said, rubbing his back. He looked up at Gray, and he saw tears in his eyes. “Can you go get Bill?”

Gray nodded. “Were will he be?”

“Down in studio two, probably. That’s where we were filming before Tim ran off.”

Just as Graham was leaving the room, Graeme added, “And a first aid kit, if you can find one.”

Graham nodded again and ran off towards the lift. As he jogged along, he tried to scrub the blood from his hands with a tissue, with minimal success. He rounded a corner, and ran headlong into Jonesy, almost knocking him to the floor.

“Fucking hell, I’m sorry,” he said, reaching out to steady Terry before he fell.

“That’s all right, mate,” Terry said, smiling. But then he saw how stressed he looked, and added, “So why were you running, exactly?”

“I need to find Bill,” He said, beginning to walk again.

Terry took his hand and hurried along beside him. “Bill Oddie?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Gray sighed. “It’s sort of private.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Gray sighed again, “Please, Terry.”

Jonesy looked like he wanted to argue, but, thankfully, he didn’t. “All right, mate, I won’t as any more questions.”

Graham smiled. “Thank you, old chap.”

They parted ways at the lift, and Graham went down two floors and followed the signs until he found what he was looking for. Graham rushed into studio two and found his way backstage, where the crew were milling around, lugging cameras and other pieces of equipment. He found Bill leaning against a wall, reading a script and swigging from a bottle of water, and went up to him.

“Bill,” he said softly, trying not to make him jump.

Bill looked up at him, and smiled. “Hello, Gray, what’re you doing here? Come to watch _The Goodies_ being filmed?”

“No, not exactly,” Gray said, sighing. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, trying to catch his breath. “I need you to come with me.”

Bill must have spotted the fear in his voice, because he began to follow after him without arguing. It was only when they were back in the lift that he finally spoke.

“What’s the matter?” He asked, pulling his bright yellow T-shirt down over his stomach self-consciously. “What’s happened?”

Gray waited for a bloke to get out of the lift, leaving the two of them alone, before he mumbled his answer. “It’s Tim.”

“What’s happened?” Bill said, his eyes widening, and Gray knew he was thinking about the incident two weeks ago. “Is he all right?”

“Not really,” Gray sighed. “You see, he sort of tried to jump off the roof.”

“What?” Bill gasped, leaning back against the wall as though he felt faint. When Gray looked down, he saw Bill’s knees wobbling, and put a steadying hand on his arm. “Fucking hell.”

“I stopped him, but he was really going to do it,” Gray said.

“Fucking hell,” he said again, sounding dazed. “The poor sod. How did you stop him?”

“I had to grab him around the waist and pull him backwards.”

“Fuck.”

“But that’s not all,” Gray said. “He’s been, uh, cutting himself again.”

Bill sighed, and Gray could have sworn he was blinking back tears.

“His wrists were bleeding, and he had a razor blade in his hand.”

“Shit,” Bill scrubbed at his eyes, almost as though he didn’t know he was crying until he felt his hands getting wet.

They were silent as they walked back to Graeme’s dressing room, and Gray could hear Bill’s breathing shuddering like he was trying his hardest to stop himself crying. When they arrived, he knocked on the door.

“It’s us.” He called through the door.

“Come in,” Graeme replied, and Gray let him and Bill into the room.

Bill let out a gasp when he saw Graeme hugging Tim, although Gray thought he was actually gasping at the clear view of Tim’s bloody wrists as he gripped the back of Graeme’s jacket.

“Bloody hell, Timbo,” he whispered, using a nickname usually reserved for his namesake character. Tim let out a strangled cry in response.

Graham stood in the doorway and watched Bill enter the room and sit down on the sofa beside Tim. He didn’t say a word, silently wrapping his arms around his friend so both him and Graeme were hugging him. Gray listened to Tim cry, and watched the agonised expressions on Graeme and Bill’s faces as they listened too. And, even though he knew Tim was with the best possible people right now, he still had no idea what they were going to do now, and he couldn’t help but think that, maybe, Tim was never going to get better.


End file.
